it was nearly fifteen years since i had married babet in my uncle lazare’s little church. we had sought happiness in our dear valley. i had made myself a farmer; the durance, my first sweetheart, was now a good mother to me, who seemed to take pleasure in making my fields rich and fertile. little by little, by following the new methods of agriculture, i became one of the wealthiest landowners in the neighbourhood.
we had purchased the oak-tree walk and the meadows bordering on the river, at the death of my wife’s parents. i had had a modest house built on this land, but we were soon obliged to enlarge it; each year i found a means of rounding off our property by the addition of some neighbouring field, and our granaries were too small for our harvests.
those first fifteen years were uneventful and happy. they passed away in serene joy, and all they have left within me is the remembrance of calm and continued happiness. my uncle lazare, on retiring to our home, had realised his dream; his advanced age did not permit of his reading his breviary of a morning; he sometimes regretted his dear church, but consoled himself by visiting the young vicar who had succeeded him. he came down from the little room he occupied at sunrise, and often accompanied me to the fields, enjoying himself in the open air, and finding a second youth amidst the healthy atmosphere of the country.
one sadness alone made us sometimes sigh. amidst the fruitfulness by which we were surrounded, babet remained childless. although we were three to love one another we sometimes found ourselves too much alone; we would have liked to have had a little fair head running about amongst us, who would have tormented and caressed us.
uncle lazare had a frightful dread of dying before he was a great-uncle. he had become a child again, and felt sorrowful that babet did not give him a comrade who would have played with him. on the day when my wife confided to us with hesitation, that we would no doubt soon be four, i saw my uncle turn quite pale, and make efforts not to cry. he kissed us, thinking already of the christening, and speaking of the child as if it were already three or four years old.
and the months passed in concentrated tenderness. we talked together in subdued voices, awaiting some one. i no longer loved babet: i worshipped her with joined hands; i worshipped her for two, for herself and the little one.
the great day was drawing nigh. i had brought a midwife from grenoble who never moved from the farm. my uncle was in a dreadful fright; he understood nothing about such things; he went so far as to tell me that he had done wrong in taking holy orders, and that he was very sorry he was not a doctor.
one morning in september, at about six o’clock, i went into the room of my dear babet, who was still asleep. her smiling face was peacefully reposing on the white linen pillow-case. i bent over her, holding my breath. heaven had blessed me with the good things of this world. i all at once thought of that summer day when i was moaning in the dust, and at the same time i felt around me the comfort due to labour and the quietude that comes from happiness. my good wife was asleep, all rosy, in the middle of her great bed; whilst the whole room recalled to me our fifteen years of tender affection.
i kissed babet softly on the lips. she opened her eyes and smiled at me without speaking. i felt an almost uncontrollable desire to take her in my arms, and clasp her to my heart; but, latterly, i had hardly dared press her hand, she seemed so fragile and sacred to me.
i seated myself at the edge of the bed, and asked her in a low voice:
“is it for to-day?”
“no, i don’t think so,” she replied. “i dreamt i had a boy: he was already very tall and wore adorable little black moustachios. uncle lazare told me yesterday that he also had seen him in a dream.”
i acted very stupidly.
“i know the child better than you do,” i said. “i see it every night. it’s a girl——”
and as babet turned her face to the wall, ready to cry, i realised how foolish i had been, and hastened to add:
“when i say a girl—i am not quite sure. i see a very small child with a long white gown.—it’s certainly a boy.”
babet kissed me for that pleasing remark.
“go and look after the vintage,” she continued, “i feel calm this morning.”
“you will send for me if anything happens?”
“yes, yes, i am very tired: i shall go to sleep again. you’ll not be angry with me for my laziness?”
and babet closed her eyes, looking languid and affected. i remained leaning over her, receiving the warm breath from her lips in my face. she gradually went off to sleep, without ceasing to smile. then i disengaged my hand from hers with a multitude of precautions. i had to manoeuvre for five minutes to bring this delicate task to a happy issue. after that i gave her a kiss on her forehead, which she did not feel, and withdrew with a palpitating heart, overflowing with love.
in the courtyard below, i found my uncle lazare, who was gazing anxiously at the window of babet’s room. so soon as he perceived me he inquired:
“well, is it for to-day?”
he had been putting this question to me regularly every morning for the past month.
“it appears not,” i answered him. “will you come with me and see them picking the grapes?”
he fetched his stick, and we went down the oak-tree walk. when we were at the end of it, on that terrace which overlooks the durance, both of us stopped, gazing at the valley.
small white clouds floated in the pale sky. the sun was shedding soft rays, which cast a sort of gold dust over the country, the yellow expanse of which spread out all ripe. one saw neither the brilliant light nor the dark shadows of summer. the foliage gilded the black earth in large patches. the river ran more slowly, weary at the task of having rendered the fields fruitful for a season. and the valley remained calm and strong. it already wore the first furrows of winter, but it preserved within it the warmth of its last labour, displaying its robust charms, free from the weeds of spring, more majestically beautiful, like that second youth, of woman who has given birth to life.
my uncle lazare remained silent; then, turning towards me, said:
“do you remember, jean? it is more than twenty years ago since i brought you here early one may morning. on that particular day i showed you the valley full of feverish activity, labouring for the fruits of autumn. look; the valley has just performed its task again.”
“i remember, dear uncle,” i replied. “i was quaking with fear on that day; but you were good, and your lesson was convincing. i owe you all my happiness.”
“yes, you have reached the autumn. you have laboured and are gathering in the harvest. man, my boy, was created after the way of the earth. and we, like the common mother, are eternal: the green leaves are born again each year from dry leaves; i am born again in you, and you will be born again in your children. i am telling you this so that old age may not alarm you, so that you may know how to die in peace, as dies this verdure, which will shoot out again from its own germs next spring.”
i listened to my uncle and thought of babet, who was sleeping in her great bed spread with white linen. the dear creature was about to give birth to a child after the manner of this fertile soil which had given us fortune. she also had reached the autumn: she had the beaming smile and serene robustness of the valley. i seemed to see her beneath the yellow sun, tired and happy, experiencing noble delight at being a mother. and i no longer knew whether my uncle lazare was talking to me of my dear valley, or of my dear babet.
we slowly ascended the hills. below, along the durance, were the meadows, broad, raw green swards; next came the yellow fields, intersected here and there by greyish olive and slender almond trees, planted wide apart in rows; then, right up above, were the vines, great stumps with shoots trailing along the ground.
the vine is treated in the south of france like a hardy housewife, and not like a delicate young lady, as in the north. it grows somewhat as it likes, according to the good will of rain and sun. the stumps, which are planted in double rows, and form long lines, throw sprays of dark verdure around them. wheat or oats are sown between. a vineyard resembles an immense piece of striped material, made of the green bands formed by the vine leaves, and of yellow ribbon represented by the stubble.
men and women stooping down among the vines, were cutting the bunches of grapes, which they then threw to the bottom of large baskets. my uncle and i walked slowly through the stubble. as we passed along, the vintagers turned their heads and greeted us. my uncle sometimes stopped to speak to some of the oldest of the labourers.
“heh! father andré,” he said, “are the grapes thoroughly ripe? will the wine be good this year?”
and the countryfolk, raising their bare arms, displayed the long bunches, which were as black as ink, in the sun; and when the grapes were pressed they seemed to burst with abundance and strength.
“look, mr. curé,” they exclaimed, “these are small ones. there are some weighing several pounds. we have not had such a task these ten years.”
then they returned among the leaves. their brown jackets formed patches in the verdure. and the women, bareheaded, with small blue handkerchiefs round their necks, were stooping down singing. there were children rolling in the sun, in the stubble, giving utterance to shrill laughter and enlivening this open-air workshop with their turbulency. large carts remained motionless at the edge of the field waiting for the grapes; they stood out prominently against the clear sky, whilst men went and came unceasingly, carrying away full baskets, and bringing back empty ones.
i confess that in the centre of this field, i had feelings of pride. i heard the ground producing beneath my feet; ripe age ran all powerful in the veins of the vine, and loaded the air with great puffs of it. hot blood coursed in my flesh, i was as if elevated by the fecundity overflowing from the soil and ascending within me. the labour of this swarm of work-people was my doing, these vines were my children; this entire farm became my large and obedient family. i experienced pleasure in feeling my feet sink into the heavy land.
then, at a glance, i took in the fields that sloped down to the durance, and i was the possessor of those vines, those meadows, that stubble, those olive-trees. the house stood all white beside the oak-tree walk; the river seemed like a fringe of silver placed at the edge of the great green mantle of my pasture-land. i fancied, for a moment, that my frame was increasing in size, that by stretching out my arms, i would be able to embrace the entire property, and press it to my breast, trees, meadows, house, and ploughed land.
and as i looked, i saw one of our servant-girls racing, out of breath, up the narrow pathway that ascended the hill. confused by the speed at which she was travelling, she stumbled over the stones, agitating both her arms, and hailing us with gestures of bewilderment. i felt choking with inexpressible emotion.
“uncle, uncle,” i shouted, “look how marguerite’s running. i think it must be for to-day.”
my uncle lazare turned quite pale. the servant had at length reached the plateau; she came towards us jumping over the vines. when she reached me, she was out of breath; she was stifling and pressing her hands to her bosom.
“speak!” i said to her. “what has happened?”
she heaved a heavy sigh, agitated her hands, and finally was able to pronounce this single word:
“madame——”
i waited for no more.
“come! come quick, uncle lazare! ah! my poor dear babet!”
and i bounded down the pathway at a pace fit to break my bones. the vintagers, who had stood up, smiled as they saw me running. uncle lazare, who could not overtake me, shook his walking stick in despair.
“heh! jean, the deuce!” he shouted, “wait for me. i don’t want to be the last.”
but i no longer heard uncle lazare, and continued running.
i reached the farm panting for breath, full of hope and terror. i rushed upstairs and knocked with my fist at babet’s door, laughing, crying, and half crazy. the midwife set the door ajar, to tell me in an angry voice not to make so much noise. i stood there abashed and in despair.
“you can’t come in,” she added. “go and wait in the courtyard.”
and as i did not move, she continued: “all is going on very well. i will call you.”
the door was closed. i remained standing before it, unable to make up my mind to go away. i heard babet complaining in a broken voice. and, while i was there, she gave utterance to a heartrending scream that struck me right in the breast like a bullet. i felt an almost irresistible desire to break the door open with my shoulder. so as not to give way to it, i placed my hands to my ears, and dashed downstairs.
in the courtyard i found my uncle lazare, who had just arrived out of breath. the worthy man was obliged to seat himself on the brink of the well.
“hallo! where is the child?” he inquired of me.
“i don’t know,” i answered; “they shut the door in my face—babet is in pain and in tears.” we gazed at one another, not daring to utter a word. we listened in agony, without taking our eyes off babet’s window, endeavouring to see through the little white curtains. my uncle, who was trembling, stood still, with both his hands resting heavily on his walking-stick; i, feeling very feverish, walked up and down before him, taking long strides. at times we exchanged anxious smiles.
the carts of the vintagers arrived one by one. the baskets of grapes were placed against a wall of the courtyard, and bare-legged men trampled the bunches under foot in wooden troughs. the mules neighed, the carters swore, whilst the wine fell with a dull sound to the bottom of the vat. acrid smells pervaded the warm air.
and i continued pacing up and down, as if made tipsy by those perfumes. my poor head was breaking, and as i watched the red juice run from the grapes i thought of babet. i said to myself with manly joy, that my child was born at the prolific time of vintage, amidst the perfume of new wine.
i was tormented by impatience, i went upstairs again. but i did not dare knock, i pressed my ear against the door, and heard babet’s low moans and sobs. then my heart failed me, and i cursed suffering. uncle lazare, who had crept up behind me, had to lead me back into the courtyard. he wished to divert me, and told me the wine would be excellent; but he spoke without attending to what he said. and at times we were both silent, listening anxiously to one of babet’s more prolonged moans.
little by little the cries subsided, and became nothing more than a painful murmur, like the voice of a child falling off to sleep in tears. then there was absolute silence. this soon caused me unutterable terror. the house seemed empty, now that babet had ceased sobbing. i was just going upstairs, when the midwife opened the window noiselessly. she leant out and beckoned me with her hand:
“come,” she said to me.
i went slowly upstairs, feeling additional delight at each step i took. my uncle lazare was already knocking at the door, whilst i was only half way up to the landing, experiencing a sort of strange delight in delaying the moment when i would kiss my wife.
i stopped on the threshold, my heart was beating double. my uncle had leant over the cradle. babet, quite pale, with closed eyelids, seemed asleep. i forgot all about the child, and going straight to babet, took her dear hand between mine. the tears had not dried on her checks, and her quivering lips were dripping with them. she raised her eyelids wearily. she did not speak to me, but i understood her to say: “i have suffered a great deal, my dear jean, but i was so happy to suffer! i felt you within me.”
then i bent down, i kissed babet’s eyes and drank her tears. she laughed with much sweetness; she resigned herself with caressing languidness. the fatigue had made her all aches and pains. she slowly moved her hands from the sheet, and taking me by the neck placed her lips to my ear:
“it’s a boy,” she murmured in a weak voice, but with an air of triumph.
those were the first words she uttered after the terrible shock she had undergone.
“i knew it would be a boy,” she continued, “i saw the child every night. give him me, put him beside me.”
i turned round and saw the midwife and my uncle quarrelling.
the midwife had all the trouble in the world to prevent uncle lazare taking the little one in his arms. he wanted to nurse it.
i looked at the child whom the mother had made me forget. he was all rosy. babet said with conviction that he was like me; the midwife discovered that he had his mother’s eyes; i, for my part, could not say, i was almost crying, i smothered the dear little thing with kisses, imagining i was still kissing babet.
i placed the child on the bed. he kept on crying, but this sounded to us like celestial music. i sat on the edge of the bed, my uncle took a large arm-chair, and babet, weary and serene, covered up to her chin, remained with open eyelids and smiling eyes.
the window was wide open. the smell of grapes came in along with the warmth of the mild autumn afternoon. one heard the trampling of the vintagers, the shocks of the carts, the cracking of whips; at times the shrill song of a servant working in the courtyard reached us. all this noise was softened in the serenity of that room, which still resounded with babet’s sobs. and the window-frame enclosed a large strip of landscape, carved out of the heavens and open country. we could see the oak-tree walk in its entire length; then the durance, looking like a white satin ribbon, passed amidst the gold and purple leaves; whilst above this square of ground were the limpid depths of a pale sky with blue and rosy tints.
it was amidst the calm of this horizon, amidst the exhalations of the vat and the joys attendant upon labour and reproduction, that we three talked together, babet, uncle lazare, and myself, whilst gazing at the dear little new-born babe.
“uncle lazare,” said babet, “what name will you give the child?”
“jean’s mother was named jacqueline,” answered my uncle. “i shall call the child jacques.”
“jacques, jacques,” repeated babet. “yes, it’s a pretty name. and, tell me, what shall we make the little man: parson or soldier, gentleman or peasant?”
i began to laugh.
“we shall have time to think of that,” i said.
“but no,” continued babet almost angry, “he will grow rapidly. see how strong he is. he already speaks with his eyes.”
my uncle lazare was exactly of my wife’s opinion. he answered in a very grave tone:
“make him neither priest nor soldier, unless he have an irresistible inclination for one of those callings—to make him a gentleman would be a serious——”
babet looked at me anxiously. the dear creature had not a bit of pride for herself; but, like all mothers, she would have liked to be humble and proud before her son. i could have sworn that she already saw him a notary or a doctor. i kissed her and gently said to her:
“i wish our son to live in our dear valley. one day, he will find a babet of sixteen, on the banks of the durance, to whom he will give some water. do you remember, my dear——? the country has brought us peace: our son shall be a peasant as we are, and happy as we are.”
babet, who was quite touched, kissed me in her turn. she gazed at the foliage and the river, the meadows and the sky, through the window; then she said to me, smiling:
“you are right, jean. this place has been good to us, it will be the same to our little jacques. uncle lazare, you will be the godfather of a farmer.”
uncle lazare made a languid, affectionate sign of approval with the head. i had been examining him for a moment, and saw his eyes becoming filmy, and his lips turning pale. leaning back in the arm-chair, opposite the window, he had placed his white hands on his knees, and was watching the heavens fixedly with an expression of thoughtful ecstasy.
i felt very anxious.
“are you in pain, uncle lazare?” i inquired of him, “what is the matter with you? answer, for mercy’s sake.”
he gently raised one of his hands, as if to beg me to speak lower; then he let it fall again, and said in a weak voice:
“i am broken down,” he said. “happiness, at my age, is mortal. don’t make a noise. it seems as if my flesh were becoming quite light: i can no longer feel my legs or arms.”
babet raised herself in alarm, with her eyes on uncle lazare. i knelt down before him, watching him anxiously. he smiled.
“don’t be frightened,” he resumed. “i am in no pain; a feeling of calmness is gaining possession of me; i believe i am going off into a good and just sleep. it came over me all at once, and i thank the almighty. ah! my poor jean, i ran too fast down, the pathway on the hillside; the child caused me too great joy.”
and as we understood, we burst out into tears. uncle lazare continued, without ceasing to watch the sky:
“do not spoil my joy, i beg of you. if you only knew how happy it makes me, to fall asleep for ever in this armchair! i have never dared expect such a consoling death. all i love is here, beside me—and see what a blue sky! the almighty has sent a lovely evening.”
the sun was sinking behind the oak-tree walk. its slanting rays cast sheets of gold beneath the trees, which took the tones of old copper. the verdant fields melted into vague serenity in the distance. uncle lazare became weaker and weaker amidst the touching silence of this peaceful sunset, entering by the open window. he slowly passed away, like those slight gleams that were dying out on the lofty branches.
“ah! my good valley,” he murmured, “you are sending me a tender farewell. i was afraid of coming to my end in the winter, when you would be all black.”
we restrained our tears, not wishing to trouble this saintly death. babet prayed in an undertone. the child continued uttering smothered cries.
my uncle lazare heard its wail in the dreaminess of his agony. he endeavoured to turn towards babet, and, still smiling, said:
“i have seen the child and die very happy.”
then he gazed at the pale sky and yellow fields, and, throwing back his head, heaved a gentle sigh.
no tremor agitated uncle lazare’s body; he died as one falls asleep.
we had become so calm that we remained silent and with dry eyes. in the presence of such great simplicity in death, all we experienced was a feeling of serene sadness. twilight had set in, uncle lazare’s farewell had left us confident, like the farewell of the sun which dies at night to be born again in the morning.
such was my autumn day, which gave me a son, and carried off my uncle lazare in the peacefulness of the twilight.
